gods rise and fall, the same can be said of heroes
by thefifthchris
Summary: "I've come to make a deal," he says into the night air, mutters it like a prayer. The boy clutches at the camera gripped in his hands. Bows his head. There's the taste of hesitance in the air before he looks back up again. "For Robin. Jason."


**A/N:** This has been sitting in my files since May 2018 oops. With the release of Young Justice Season 3, my love for the batfamily has resurged, so I thought it was appropriate to finally post this. This was initially supposed to be a Tim/Jason fic I was gonna work on the side...but life got in the way so both _Burnt Stars_ and this fic got put on the backburner. So—ta da have the bare-bones idea of what was gonna be a fic? Hope you enjoy.

* * *

gods rise and fall. the same can be said for heroes

* * *

Gods rise and fall.

It is truth for every being, living or dead, mortal or immortal. In waves and tides, souls eddy in an inevitable cycle of birth, decay, death, rebirth. Ragnarok stitches itself in the seams of time, ripping open the cosmic pattern of the universe only to mend it anew.

She, gasping and shuddering upon her sudden consciousness and conception, is unsure if she is a goddess reborn from the dark soil beneath the cracked asphalt of the city or sprung from the blood pooling in every alley corner. Her fingernails are twisted glass, sharp and jagged at the tips, as though they clawed at gravel during her birthing, tore at dense masses of leather and sinew, cracked from the unforgiving steel and iron that forged the foundations of the city.

Perhaps, in another life, she knew crisp waters, warm hearths, green grass brimming with dew. Maybe she had once even been worshipped, in the way only those with soles that scraped against rotting wood and saltwater remembered. Those, that with the faintest lick of wind against their foreheads, recalled old worship and flame as they traveled to a new land.

But no, this is not that life. All she has now is the stabbing weight of women's heels, the slick spill of oil and ichor mixing together, the limp, decayed flesh of death.

The gods, reborn though they are, linger like ghosts over their domains. She too is but a wraith over her own territory, nothing to her name. The divine of old would be disappointed.

But they are gone, or if anything just flickering wisps, and she is still here.

The city is called Gotham, and she adopts the name as such.

* * *

Gotham chooses her heroes diligently, carefully. It is what is expected of her.

In the beginning, she keeps in mind the classical ideologies of old—from another lifetime ago when heroes only needed to be robust enough, courageous enough, vengeful enough. Her first hero is something similar: a man with the audacity to play god.

Bruce Wayne, a crusader of solid strength and will and enough darkness to carry through his duty. Courage in spades, but discipline even moreso. His anger and grief pumped fresh life into her, staining the streets with righteous blood and bone.

Before, Gotham had forced failure upon noble but weak attempts at saving her. It was easy to recognize those that had good intentions but would ultimately fail, easier to send them home to nurse their wounds and realize they are out of their depth.

But Bruce Wayne had the means to build himself as an icon, and she was so very fond of this first hero of hers. Efficient and brutal, a hero that rose above his reputation. Alas, his code of honor was unfortunate; there is nothing honorable in prolonging spilt blood. Less sacrifice for her.

She allowed for his choice in successor—young and free and bright, the Robin flies in painted colors that shine against her shadows. She should have felt repelled. She was not. The little bird crowed with the same grief as any of her subjects.

And for years, her two heroes were enough to staunch the flow of greymatter splattered on her building, prevent thousands of dying breaths from floating into the air. Kept her streets stripped clean like a skinned hare. Maintained balance between mayhem and order.

Then the little bird leaves, her bat is alone, and chaos spins in the air like dandelions. Gotham writhes with displeasure, tossing and turning and moaning. The people feel it and grip their briefcases tighter, tuck their holsters deeper, press children closer.

It's not until Jason Todd bursts out from the soiled earth, raw and red and new like the pit of a cherry, that Gotham breathes again.

And _oh_ , he is anger and vengeance of a different brand than Bruce. The sort of anger born from her own streets, nurtured in the gaps of her ribcage. Jason Todd walks to the beat of Gotham's heart, and she adores him.

She licks at the shattering shards he leaves in his wake. Broken boy, beautiful boy. The kind of tragic hero that the ancient gods had loved. She leads him to the bat—the only divine intervention her meager powers allows for.

And for a time, things are fine again. The bat appeased and Gotham glad of her new hero's audacity. Loud laughter in the wind, followed by crooked grins and skinned knees.

But it is far too short.

The mad Joker.

Fire, ash, and pain.

Tattered cape doubling as a shroud.

He is gone.

* * *

Gotham mourns, and the streets weep with the thick crimson wash of blood. The bat must feel her pain, resonate with it as well, for he too spirals into a whirlwind of chaos and violence.

The old bird returns for a while, fresh with the stink of another deity—Blüdhaven, if she recalls correctly. He helps ease the pain, but it is not enough. The bright blue stripe against the darkness is not her blood anymore.

Then, a spark in the darkness. A new crusader for her, but he feels like an old memory. He reminds her of quieter times, a soul made of thunder in the distance or the sound of cracking ice as it melts. She remembers him as the quiet footsteps following the flight of heroes.

 _Ah welcome, child._ She croons. The street lights flicker and bend in as though to cradle him.

Tim Drake, sharp as a butcher's knife in both mind and soul, looks up. He stares her in the eyes though she has none.

"I've come to make a deal," he says into the night air, mutters it like a prayer. The boy clutches at the camera gripped in his hands. Bows his head. There's the taste of hesitance in the air before he looks back up again. "For Robin. Jason."

She flickers with surprise. Smart enough to figure out the other heroes identities, perceptive enough to register her presence. His voice is still in the high register of youth.

 _What do you offer me?_

"Myself."

She cackles, an ugly hacking thing that comes out in the screech of tires across the city. There are no offers to gods anymore.

The boy flushes. But he is insistent, looking up at the flickering lights as though they are stars.

"Is that not enough? One soul for another."

 _It will never be enough_ , She whispers sadly. _He will never come back all the way_.

"But he _can_ come back?" He presses. "Batman needs a Robin. I'll give anything."

She is silent. Nervously, his small, pale hands fiddle with the camera and it drops. The boy startles and reaches down to pick it up, fingertips brushing the asphalt.

For the briefest of moments, Gotham can feel rich soil, cool stone, the burst of a pomegranate seed against her tongue. She feels freedom and comfort amidst darkness, long fingers tangling with her's.

She feels at home.

… _Time. Give me time_. Gotham says after a pause.

"How?"

 _Fly. I will take care of the rest._

Maybe she should be worried of losing another hero. The distant grief of melting wax and golden wings reverberates through her, but it tangles with the fresh sorrow of a bomb, a tattered cape, echoing laughter. No. Gotham needs her heroes. Tim Drake inherits the mask.

Ra's cheat. There is only one way to bring her child back wholly, and she knows it. Had been too scared to relinquish her hold over this city, to fade into the nothings that the other gods were reduced to.

Oddly enough, she thinks she is finally ready.

* * *

Existence is fading from her eyes.

It is in those last dying embers, staring at the determined wall of Tim Drake's eyes as she drowns, that she remembers. Her lips split open, and she mouths:

 _Persephone. They called me Persephone._

The Robin's eyes look sad. Apologetic. He reaches down and brushes his fingers over her temple. She cannot help but smile even as the darkness floods in and she perishes. The Lazarus Pit glows with the green of spring.

A heartbeat stutters to life. Jason Todd's eyes flutter open with a gasp.

* * *

He stares. First at the boy in front of him. Then, at their joined hands, at the pit of sludge he's submerged in from the waist down. Back to the boy. Robin.

Stupidly, because Jason Todd is known for many things but silence is not one of them, he opens his mouth,

"Who the hell are you?"

The boy smiles. It's something familiar, and Jason's mind flashes with the odd vision of a meadow, a cold hand holding his, a crack in the earth. He doesn't know where that memory is from.

"Tim Drake. Your—Replacement, if you will."

" _What the fuck_."


End file.
